


True Friends Will Never Stab You (but They'll Hurt You All the Same)

by This_Bloody_Cat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Comeplay, Friendship, Love Confessions, M/M, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Bloody_Cat/pseuds/This_Bloody_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius is frustrated. Albus aims to confuse. Together, they don't make much sense—only perhaps they do, because they're them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Friends Will Never Stab You (but They'll Hurt You All the Same)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, [Obeliskking](http://obeliskking.livejournal.com), for fixing the mess that were my pronouns, and generally helping me out with this. Any remaining mistakes are my own, and I feel like I should warn that those three words are said too much. 
> 
> I promise no books were destroyed in the writing of this story. And I hope you'll enjoy reading it at least as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

“You said you loved me,” Al says. He settles close behind Scorpius under the covers, one arm resting lightly around Scorpius' waist.

The warmth against Scorpius' back makes his throat feel tight—there, but not _all_ there. He tries to memorise it. He knows it's ephemeral. He's never really known where he stands with Al.

Al is both hot and cold, pulling in and pushing away at the same time, and Scorpius is nothing but reliable. Always the best mate. He's the one Al will come back to after he's been out doing … whoever it is Al is doing these days.

Scorpius doesn't keep track anymore. It's easier if he doesn't.

“I did,” he says at last. His voice sounds small, strained. He sometimes wonders whether it's a curse or a blessing that Al just happened to be listening when he said that.

“Do you still?” asks Al.

The arm around Scorpius tightens, pulling him closer when he stubbornly keeps his mouth shut. Al's lips brush against the back of his neck, and Scorpius lets out a short laugh. It sounds like a sob.

“Well, do you?” Al asks again.

Al doesn't like to sleep alone. He used to climb into Scorpius' bed in the Slytherin dorms, and Scorpius let him. He would have let Al do anything he wanted, anything at all, because Al was his friend, his lifeline, his one connection to happiness. And yes, because Scorpius loved him.

Now Al has a room of his own in their shared flat, but it's not like he ever spends the night there; Scorpius thinks nerves might welcome it if Al did. On the other hand, he's not sure the rest of him would.

“Always.” Scorpius closes his eyes. He can feel Al's grin against his shoulder, and the hand around him draws slow circles on his chest.

“Good,” Al declares.

It does feel good, but Scorpius can no longer tell the difference between soaring and crashing down.

**

They were sixteen when Scorpius made his first mistake.

He had just caught the Snitch that would win them the House Cup and he was drunk on adrenaline and victory, and a bit shell-shocked to have finally beaten James Potter to it.

He tumbled backwards when Al flew straight into him, and the next thing he knew, they were both sprawled gracelessly on the grass, and Al was clinging to him like it was his last day on Earth. His face was so close Scorpius could smell the rain on him, the sweat.

Al liked rainy days and Quidditch, he liked Potions and Crups and chocolate—and Scorpius really, really liked Al.

“You did it, Scorp, you won! We won!”

Al's smile could light up the darkest night, and it probably should have come as no surprise when Scorpius' mind picked that exact moment to take a leave of absence.

“I love you,” Scorpius heard himself say.

 _What the hell_ , he thought hysterically, _what the bloody hell was that, what?_ The grass felt damp and cold under his robes, and Al was all over him, all around him. Scorpius felt trapped.

He stopped breathing when Al pushed himself up and just sat there, straddling Scorpius. Al gave him a very long look, and Scorpius held his breath. His cheeks felt warm, and he felt oddly transparent, and kept holding his breath until Al smiled that perfect skewed grin of his. Until he said, “I know.”

The relief was so sharp it almost hurt.

Only later that night, when Al slid into his bed and held him close, did Scorpius realise that Al had never actually said he returned his feelings. Al had merely pointed out that Scorpius wasn't the subtlest of people when it came to him.

**

“You look like someone tortured your Kneazle and made you sit through it,” Al says the following morning, before the ghost of his fingers is driven out of Scorpius' skin. “Only I know that can't be. You don't own a Kneazle.”

He presses a warm mug into Scorpius' hands—tea, sweet and milky, just the way Al likes it—and ruffles his hair. “I don't like it when you're sad,” he says. He keeps forgetting Scorpius isn't too fond of sugar. He keeps forgetting Scorpius hates it when people touch his hair.

Only, Scorpius doesn't really mind it when it's Al.

“Sorry.” Scorpius isn't sure what he's apologising for, it just seems like the thing to do. He adds, “I didn't get much sleep last night,” because at least that much is true.

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

Scorpius doesn't answer. What's the point? Al knows he isn't, and he doesn't like where this is going. Not one bit.

It's all happened before.

“You should try, you know,” Al goes on, unfazed. “You're a good-looking bloke, you could have anyone you liked, and it might take your mind off … stuff.”

Yes. Stuff like Al.

“Not anyone.” Scorpius meant to sound light, but he can recognise the bitter edge to his voice.

Al has, at least, the decency to look embarrassed when he says, “Yes, well. You know I don't do relationships.”

Sure, that's what Al's calling it these days, never mind that he hasn't always been this careful with his words, or that Scorpius isn't nearly as forgetful as everyone seems to think him. He knows Al really means, _Not with you_. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear Al say it.

Scorpius just doesn't know why.

**

“Hullo,” Scorpius says, trying to shove his wand into his back pocket. “How come you're back so early?”

He wishes, not for the first time, that his shrinking charms weren't so shoddy. Even with a feather-light charm on them, the books are heavier than a pregnant Thestral. If he could at least shrink them without risking tearing them to shreds—the librarian has, as it is, enough reasons to want Scorpius' head mounted on a trophy—they would be easier to carry.

Al hitches a shoulder. “Gerhard wanted to shut up shop early. It's his granddaughter's birthday, you know how he dotes on her.”

Al got an apprenticeship at Ollivander's straight out of Hogwarts—his dream job, he said, but he works long hours, most days. He's rarely home before Scorpius.

Scorpius drops the pile of books onto the sofa. He starts a little when Al hooks his fingers into his belt loops and pulls him down on top of him, but he goes with it.

It's one of those days then.

“How's your research coming along?” Al asks. “Any progress?”

He runs his hands up Scorpius' thighs, and kisses the tender skin just beneath his jaw. Scorpius shivers. He wonders if Al knows just how sensitive his neck is, how much this turns him on every time. He probably does; the wanker.

“Not really, I wish I'd picked a different topic for my dissertation.” Scorpius tangles his fingers in Al's hair and sighs happily, resting his elbows on Al's shoulders. “You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find reliable sources. Aesacus is particularly elusive. He's mentioned in a couple of chapters, but only in passing.”

“Love it when you speak in foreign tongues,” Al murmurs softly. He looks up at Scorpius, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, and Scorpius bites his lip. He could lose himself in Al's eyes, and he's not even sure he'd try to find a way out.

He doesn't even want to think about the implications of that. Not now.

“It's not my fault you never paid any attention in History of Magic.”

Al's kisses are warm and messy, and so urgent, and when he slowly palms the bulge in Scorpius' jeans, Scorpius thinks he could come from that alone.

“Here or bed? What do you think?”

Scorpius thinks he should say nowhere. He should put a stop to this madness before it kills him, before he feels entirely too filthy and pathetic to look at himself in the mirror—but Al wants this, Al wants _him_ , and Scorpius has never wanted anything else half as much as that.

“Bed, definitely,” he manages weakly. He starts to stand, but Al has other ideas. He wraps an arm firmly around Scorpius and Apparates them both to his room.

Scorpius says, “Show off,” because that was unnecessary. Their flat isn't even that big. And then, “Prick,” because Al looks entirely too smug as he walks Scorpius a few paces back, until his knees collide with the mattress and he's tumbling backwards.

Scorpius pushes himself up on his elbows. He watches, entranced, as Al kneels and starts, one by one, undoing the clasps on Scorpius' dragon hide boots.

It occurs to him then that there's something inherently sensual to someone else taking off your shoes. He can't quite put a finger on it, but he's reminded—oddly enough, when he hasn't been there since Christmas—of the Manor, of the first time his father let him fly. He'd felt free and like nothing was beyond him.

It's not the fact that Al is kneeling before him, it's not even the way he's pulling Scorpius' boots off—with such _care,_ running his knuckles up the underside of Scorpius' foot like it's a bloody masterpiece. That'd be ridiculous, because that's just how Al works when it comes to Scorpius. Al would probably break his heart with care.

Scorpius wonders idly if that's what's going on—only it can't be; his heart's been crushed to shards and ground into dust. There's not much left to be broken anymore, or so he thinks.

**

It started during their seventh year.

Scorpius was furious when Al took that Gryffindor bint to the Yule Ball, but he didn't complain. It wasn't his place; he knew that much. Even if he felt sick and cold at the sight of them dancing, their chests pressed together intimately.

He was even more furious when Al didn't return to their dorm after the celebrations and, for some ill-advised reason, no doubt, Scorpius then decided to go looking for him. He really should have realised when people sneak away, they usually don't want to be followed.

He came upon Al snogging _Lorcan_ sodding _Scamander_ in the Transfiguration Courtyard.

Scorpius wanted to run back to his dorm, maybe _Avada Kedavra_ himself a couple of times, just for good measure. His limbs, on the other hand, appeared to have ideas of their own, and would rather he stood there staring like a creepy stalker. So stand and stare he did. At least until Al had the nerve to raise an eyebrow at him, as if _daring_ him to say something.

Scorpius doesn't exactly remember how he made it back to the dungeons. He doesn't even remember falling asleep that night. He remembers setting Al's essay on the properties of eagle owl feathers on fire just fine—it was petty at best, but the massive void where Scorpius' heart used to be insisted Al deserved no better—but not falling asleep. He must have, however, because he woke up to Al's fingers combing through his hair.

Al liked to do that. For some reason, Al liked Scorpius' hair. He had said that often enough. Only, every other time, that made Scorpius feel warm and pleased and not sadly unremarkable.

When their eyes met, Al just flicked Scorpius on the nose and smiled, like everything was peachy; Scorpius pushed at his chest so hard Al actually fell off the bed.

“Don't fucking touch me!”

“Merlin!” Al rolled his eyes. “I won't, okay? Don't get your knickers in a twist.”

“My knickers are just fine, Potter,” Scorpius snarled. “I rather think you ought to worry about yours. You seem to have dropped them somewhere.”

“Oh, so _that's_ what this is about then.” Al looked livid, and Scorpius felt ridiculously guilty—and why should he, really, when he was the one hurting there, not Al?

“What else could it be about?”

After a minute that felt more like a lifetime, Al sighed and reached out his hand to brush his thumb across Scorpius' jaw. “This is stupid, Scorp,” he said tiredly. “Come here.”

“No.” Scorpius buried his face into his pillow. It was still damp from earlier, and that was enough to—just when Scorpius thought he couldn't possibly feel any worse—bring fresh tears of shame and anger to his eyes. If Al noticed, he thankfully didn't comment. “Just leave me alone, Al. Go back to your boyfriend or whatever. You obviously think I'm disgusting.”

“What? Why would you say—” Al sounded positively horrified. “Is that what you think?”

Scorpius sniffed, shifting a little to be able to look at Al. Good, he thought heatedly, let him suffer, and there was another, sharper pang of guilt. It didn't make sense.

“It's not like that at all, you silly twat. I think you're smart and funny, and terribly fit,” Al said softly. Even in the dim light of the Slytherin dungeons, his cheeks went noticeably pink. “You're amazing at Quidditch, and an all-around upstanding bloke when you're not trying to be an arse. But you're also my best mate, Scorp. I can't date you.”

“You can't, or you won't?”

Al winced. “Probably both.”

Scorpius' heart was beating so hard, he could feel it in his temples. He wondered if Al could feel it too, under his fingertips, and then, because Scorpius was sometimes daft like that, he genuinely surprised himself by making his second mistake.

“It's not like we'd _have_ to date, you know,” he said quietly.

“No, that's a terrible idea. Epically bad. I can't believe you'd—” Al looked away, and Scorpius wondered for a moment if he'd read this all wrong, if Al hadn't really meant … that. But no, Al had called him _fit_ and that had to mean something. “You know what? I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

Scorpius pushed himself up on his elbows, moving closer to Al until their noses were almost touching, their mouths only inches apart. He let his eyes drop to Al's lips—slightly parted, slightly chapped, utterly flawless—and whispered, “Why?”

“Because, bloody hell.” Al sucked in a breath. “You can't hate me, Scorp. You don't get to change, do you hear me?”

Scorpius blinked.

 _What an odd thing to say_ , he thought, because it was. What was Al even talking about? It felt significant, like he should at least try to analyse it further, but then Al was kissing him hard, cupping Scorpius' face in his palms like he was fucking _precious_ , and Scorpius forgot why he'd been thinking about words in the first place. Pointless little words. As if they mattered.

Scorpius tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and very nearly forgot his own name when Al began fucking his mouth with his tongue.

He had never been happier in his life.

**

Scorpius startles awake when the mattress dips behind him and a warm weight presses against his back. “Al?” he asks, as if it could possibly be anyone else.

“Go back to sleep,” Al tells him, kissing a trail down the side of his neck.

“What time is it?”

“Late.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes before he remembers Al can't see it. “Obviously,” he says, and he's rewarded with a sharp nip on his shoulder.

The sheets rustle when Al's arm wraps around him, and he can feel Al's cock settling snugly between his arse cheeks.

Scorpius rocks his hips lightly. “You're hard.”

“Yeah.” Al grins into his shoulder, skimming a hand over Scorpius' chest. “And you're always cross when you're tired. Go back to sleep, Scorp, you'll thank me in the morning.”

Scorpius turns over. “Maybe, but I'm not tired now,” he says pointedly, and then—Scorpius isn't sure who starts it but—they're kissing, hard and sloppy, and Al's doing that bloody marvellous thing he does, with his tongue, that never fails to set Scorpius' nerves on fire.

Al rolls on top of him, palms flat against him as his mouth moves down Scorpius' chest. “I can see that,” he mumbles into Scorpius' skin. Scorpius' hips buck when Al drags his teeth over a nipple, but there's no friction. Not enough.

He groans, spreading his legs wider when Al's hands squeeze his arse cheeks, pushing them apart, and then shivers when he feels Al's warm breath between his thighs. Al's tongue runs down his crack, circling his hole, playfully flicking against it. Al presses one slick digit into him and, as the finger thrusts in and out slowly, tongues the underside of his cock.

“Bloody hell, Al …” Scorpius whimpers, sinking his fingers into Al's hair. He can feel the vibrations of Al's chuckle against his cock; they make him impossibly harder.

Scorpius knows he must make quite a picture like this, shaky and breathless, with his hair damp and awry and his skin _burning_ —but he's, quite frankly, too far gone to care. He pushes back against Al's hand, once, twice, until Al finally, finally takes the hint and adds another finger.

Al crooks them, and Scorpius hears himself moan when they find his prostate.

“That good, is it?” Al teases, still leisurely fucking him with his fingers. Scorpius doesn't think it can get any better than this—and yet, he's swiftly proven wrong when Al swallows the head of his cock.

“Shut up, you tosser,” Scorpius says in a low, pleading whisper, and, “Fuck me already.” He fervently wishes his body were a bit more obedient. He's painfully close and, if Al doesn't stop swirling his tongue against his slit like that, it's all going to be over in an embarrassingly short time.

“Well, since you insist.” Al gently pulls his fingers out. The mattress moves, and there's a quick mumbled _Lumos._ Scorpius winces at the sudden brightness, but then Al smiles, a bit sheepishly, and says, “I wanted to see your face properly,” and Scorpius' protests die on his lips.

It burns a little when Al's cock slides past the tight ring of muscle, but then he's inside him, and Scorpius feels full and stretched but it's not a bad feeling.

“Fuck, you're gorgeous,” Al whispers. “Incredible.” He's holding very, very still, breathing short shallow breaths. He sounds almost _awed_ , somehow. “You're the closest to perfection I've ever been, and I swear, you don't even—”

Scorpius swallows.

He thinks, _Salazar's effing dead Basilisk_. He thinks, _You little shit,_ because it's moments like these that will bring his undoing. When Al says those things, when he looks at Scorpius like he's hung the moon and the sun and every last star in the universe, Scorpius can no longer keep that annoyingly persistent spark of hope smothered—it'll come back to life with a vengeance, he knows it will. It will burn him from the inside.

He wishes, yet again, that he knew how to explain all this to Al in a way Al would understand—because that's worked ever so well in the past. Instead, he settles for wrapping his legs around Al, pulling him closer, and that finally gets Al to move. He reaches down between them, stroking Scorpius' cock in time with his thrusts—and there's a definite rhythm to them, powerful but steady, even when Al's kisses feel desperate.

“I don't know how to make you _see_ it.” It's hard to make out Al's words when they're mumbled into his neck, but Scorpius knows how it goes, this particular speech. It's confusing, but it's not new. He can't make sense of it. He never could. But he could quote it in his sleep. “I want to, I do, but here's the thing, it's … complicated. And I really need you like this. I need you not to change.”

Al's thrusts get deeper, harder and _brilliant,_ and Scorpius' thighs are trembling now, his muscles tingling beneath his skin. There's a choked moan, and panting, and Scorpius can no longer tell who's doing what because he's coming, lost and white-hot and infinite, and it takes him a minute to realise his hands are still clutching Al's shoulders, so tightly they'll probably leave marks.

“Okay?” Al asks a while later.

A single finger slides through the puddle of semen cooling on Scorpius' stomach, tracing eight-shaped figures. Scorpius thinks he should find it gross but, at the moment, all he can feel is fuzzy and slow, and like he's never coming down from this.

“Sticky,” he says. “Like I need a shower, or at least a well-aimed _Scourgify_.” Now, if only his limbs weren't jelly.

“You know you love my come up your tight little arse.” There's a light slap against his side, and then Al's hand is trailing farther down, Al's fingers slipping back inside him. It's an easy slide, wet and messy, and Al's voice is husky and low when he tells him, “You love to feel it trickling out, slowly, dribbling down your thighs. You love being loose and wet for me.”

Scorpius laughs, a bit shakily. “Merlin, you're utterly indecent.”

“And yet, you love me,” Al says, complacently. “Or so you keep telling me.”

Scorpius sighs. “I don't know why you find that so hard to believe.”

Al presses a soft kiss between his brows—an incongruously chaste gesture, considering his fingers are still pushing gently at Scorpius' hole. He smiles a small smile when he pulls back, but it looks wrong. Wistful, somehow.

“I don't,” he says. “I do believe you; I just don't like it when you're sad.”

That, again.

But Scorpius doesn't know how to feel anything else when he mourns how these flawless moments always come with an expiration date, how they can only last so long. He knows he's just going to die a little inside the next time Al hooks up with someone else.

He knows this needs to end.

**

Going back to the Manor feels a lot like admitting defeat, but that alone isn't enough to change his mind. He hasn't told Al. He hasn't even left a note—he wouldn't know what to say anyway, when it's all been said before and this is as much his fault as it is Al's.

“Scorpius?” The note of surprise in his father's voice sends a pang of guilt straight through his heart. He's been neglecting them—unconsciously but, all the same, he shouldn't have.

“Hello, Father.”

“I didn't know you were coming for a visit,” his father says. “Your mother will be delighted when she hears, I'm sure. Let me go find her.”

“No!” His mother would take one look at him and _know_ , she would hold him and tell him everything would work out in the end, and then he'd fall apart. It's been hard enough, keeping it together this long. “There's no need to trouble her now. I planned on staying for a while, if that's all right.”

If he may. If they'll still have him.

His father blinks, then frowns. “Of course it is; this is still your home.”

Scorpius tries a smile, but he can tell from his father's narrowed eyes that he's not making a very good job of it.

“What has he done?” his father wants to know. Not, _What happened?_ Scorpius wonders momentarily how much of that is his father's timeless dislike for the Potters speaking, and how much he's actually guessed right. Scorpius has never told him, but he suspects, now and again, his father knows far more than he lets on.

He clears his throat. “I'd prefer not to talk about it.”

He's entirely unprepared for his father's arms to close around him—his father has never been the most tactile person—and it makes him realise, rather sullenly, he really must look like crap.

“I knew it, I knew I shouldn't have let you—”

“Don't,” Scorpius cuts him off mid-sentence. His father should never have to blame himself for letting Scorpius make his own mistakes. Scorpius is no longer a child. He appreciates that he's been given that much freedom, and he'll own up to his choices. “I moved in with Al because I wanted to. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He doesn't add, _And now I'm moving out because I couldn't handle it_ , but he reckons that's implicit.

**

He sees Al a few days later, when he shows up unexpectedly at the Manor.

By then, Scorpius' life consists largely of reading, eating meals with his parents and sleeping, and being occasionally glad no one has pushed him for answers.

Whenever he needs new books from the library, he Apparates directly from inside the house—the gardens are to be avoided at all costs; Al once mentioned he liked them.

He has, much to his mother's immense dismay, thrown sheets over every painting in his wing of the Manor, and started taking absurd detours when forced to venture outside it—all in the hope of avoiding Headmaster Snape's portrait because, while Al might not like this, it's still his namesake. He hasn't been flying—and he loves flying, but then again, so does Al.

He won't even play the piano—which Al can't actually do, but he's always loved listening to Scorpius, and Scorpius can't control what his mind chooses to throw at him when he lays his fingers on the black and white keys.

He thinks he could, by now, make a list of all the things Al loves and call it accurate. He just doesn't know if his name will ever make that list.

“Albus Severus is here to see you,” his mother tells him, from where she's leaning against the door frame.

“Tell him to sod off and die.”

“Language,” she chides, but her lips twitch. “Besides, your father may have done that already, all to no avail I'm afraid. Albus Severus insists he won't leave until you agree to talk to him.”

Scorpius glares down at his book before slamming it shut. “Fine. Where is he?”

“Still loitering in the parlour, I expect.”

“Fine,” he says again, more to give himself courage that anything else.

He finds his father pacing like a caged Kneazle by the door to the parlour.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, eyeing Scorpius warily. “I could always hex Harry Potter's doppelgänger there into next week, and the Ministry would be none the wiser.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes at the wishful smirk on his face. His father has been calling Al _that_ ever since he first saw Al, standing on Platform 9¾, when both Scorpius and Al were first years. He's the only one to still find it funny.

“You'd love to, wouldn't you?”

“Can't say I have never considered it,” his father admits.

“I'll be fine, Father, really.” Scorpius takes a deep breath and, when it looks like his father might disagree, adds, “Talking to him is hardly going to kill me.”

His father gives the door a level look, before nodding stiffly. “Go on, then. The sooner he's dealt with, the sooner he'll be off my property.”

Al looks up with a half-smile when Scorpius steps into the room. He looks oddly subdued, his eyes red-rimmed and shockingly haunted, and his hair messier than it's been in ages; Scorpius badly wants to hug him, but he catches himself, clenching his fists by his sides.

“I figured you'd be hiding here,” Al says.

Scorpius shrugs. “It is home, after all.”

“Is it, now?” Al's eyes narrow. “See, I thought that might have changed when I asked you to move in with me.”

“I can't do that anymore, Al,” he says wearily. “Trust me, I've tried. It fucking hurt.”

For a moment there, he almost expects Al to gloat—because this thing between them, this was Scorpius' arrangement after all; he was the one to suggest it in the first place, and Al did warn him it wouldn't end well—but Al does no such thing. Al just stands there mutely, looking very, very small, and very scared.

“I don't like to hurt you,” he says at last.

Scorpius laughs grimly. “Could've bought that.”

“It's true, I'm just—”

“I just don't think friends with benefits will ever work for me.” Scorpius folds his arms across his chest, tearing his eyes away from how Al's t-shirt clings to his shoulders, outlining the taut muscles underneath. It won't do to get distracted now.

“I guessed as much when you vanished in the middle of the night, yes,” Al says bitingly. “Merlin, you could have _said_ something. I was worried out of my mind. I thought there may have been and accident, I thought you—”

“I couldn't tell you,” Scorpius says. “If I had, I wouldn't have left.”

The ensuing silence is tense, almost unbearably so. Scorpius feels compelled to break it.

“I'm always going to want more, Al. I'm sorry.”

“I know that.” Al is closer now, and Scorpius can smell wood and smoke on him—probably from the wands, his mind helpfully supplies. It's still light outside; Al likely came straight from work. “But I don't want to lose you.”

“For fuck's sake, it doesn't have to come to that. We can still be friends.” Scorpius swallows thickly. “I can do that, okay? I just need the mixed signals to stop. Stop touching me, stop kissing me, definitely stop petting me. I don't know what to make of that, it's too …” Hard, confusing, _frustrating_. “I keep getting mixed up.”

Al bites his lip, looking chagrined. “I'm not sure I want that to stop.”

“Well, figure it out then,” Scorpius snaps. “What exactly is it you want from me? Don't you think I deserve to know at least that much? You already know what I want; I've told you plenty of times. And now you know I'm also willing to go back to being just friends. So sort your crap out, Al. It's your choice to make, but you need to make one. I'm not going back until you do.”

Al shakes his head, looking for a moment like he's going to object, but eventually says, “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he's gone.

**

Two more weeks go by before Scorpius next sees Al, and this time, Al doesn't chance going to the Manor. He corners Scorpius at the library instead, and for a single bewildering moment, Scorpius wonders why Al is there at all, and not at work as he should be, and just how long he's been milling about waiting for Scorpius to show up.

“Please, please come back,” Al begs, trailing behind him like a stray Crup, “I'll do anything.”

Scorpius snorts. “No, you won't. What happened to not dating me?”

“Are you seriously planning to extort me into dating you?”

“Of course not, you bleeding imbecile.” Scorpius rolls his eyes. “I'm merely calling you out on your lies.”

“Good.” Al glares. “Because I would, you know. But relationships end.”

“So do friendships! You're looking at things all wrong!” It comes out much louder than Scorpius intended, and he looks around in a bit of a panic, because this is still a library and whatnot. And naturally, now _everyone_ is staring at him not having a lover's quarrel with his non-famous not-boyfriend—who just happens to look enough like the Boy Who Defeated the Dark Lord Twice to fail sorely at being inconspicuous—in a place entirely too public, and entirely too crowded not to be awkward.

They even have the gall to look interested.

“Please don't leave me, please,” Al says under his breath. “It gets awfully lonely without you.” His face looks ashen.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'd never do that.”

Scorpius can feel the librarian's glare boring into the back of his head, and he mentally waves goodbye to that tome on ancient Greek Seers, the one he besought her to borrow from the Restricted Section for him. He'll just have to go to Hogwarts himself and hope that, as farfetched as it seems, Madam Pince no longer recalls the tragic incident with _The Dream Oracle_ and the malfunctioning Self-Writing Quill.

“Wouldn't you?” asks Al. “The way I see it, you already have.”

“For a while, you useless sod, not forever!” Scorpius' words echo in the deafening silence. His cheeks burn when someone actually shushes him from one of the tables. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You know my terms. I'll go back once you tell me what exactly I'm going back to. I thought I'd made that clear.”

“Oh, you did, but how do I know you won't change your mind if I take too long? It's not like you can promise, is it?”

“I will go back eventually, and I can bloody well promise if I want to. Merlin, Al, how long have we been friends? How could you honestly think I'd just up and leave, and never be seen again?”

“Because it's scary,” Al murmurs.

“Lots of things are. You can't go through life avoiding them all.” Unsurprisingly, his mind chooses that very moment to point out that, for the past few weeks, Scorpius has done nothing but.

Suddenly, his choice of phrasing seems downright cringe-worthy.

Al shakes his head faintly. “You don't understand.”

Al's fingers close around Scorpius' wrist. There's the insistent pressure of Side-Along all around him, a sickening ripple and, a moment later, when Scorpius staggers back into existence, they're both standing in their flat.

“Thanks ever so much for the warning,” Scorpius says crisply.

“I'm sorry. It's just, there's something I need to tell you and … To be honest, it's going to be hard enough without the nosy onlookers.”

“Well? I'm waiting.”

“You were in the hospital wing when we studied Boggarts in Defence. You've never actually seen mine.”

Scorpius blinks, trying not to look too unsettled by the sudden change of setting, of topic, of mood. After a lengthy pause, he says, “You told me it was a Dementor,” because he's almost certain that's true, even if it was so long ago the details are now fuzzy.

“I lied.” Al shrugs. “It wasn't a Dementor, that's dad's Boggart. Mine was you.”

“ _I_ was your greatest fear.” The sheer absurdity of that statement startles a laugh out of Scorpius—which is apparently the wrong thing to do, because now Al's face is clouding over.

“You, saying you hated me. Saying you never wanted to see my face again.”

Scorpius stares, a million thoughts flying about in his head, because that was in third year, that was before sixth year on the Quidditch pitch and Al's lips on his, before sharing a flat and shagging, before slipping in and out of pain but never out of love, before _everything,_ and maybe …

“Is that why you never wanted anything with me?”

“Oh, I'd say there were plenty of things I wanted from you, actually,” Al says evasively.

“You know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I do.” There's a slow nod. A deep breath. “And it was. I thought as long as I kept you at a distance, I'd get to—” Al pauses, and Scorpius thinks, what a pair they must make, never getting anything right between them. “Well, to keep you. It sounds silly and selfish, but there you have it. And you have to believe me when I say I never meant to hurt you. I'm truly sorry I did.”

“It's all right, Al. I survived, didn't I?”

“It's not all right.” Al's eyes are wide with dread—the vivid green now dark, a shadow of its former self. He stands stiffly, his clenched fists frozen by his sides. Scorpius wonders if he's still breathing. “I just— you were everything to me, and when you told me you loved me … We were so young. I was so terrified. I couldn't bear to let you get that close, only to have you move on when you finally grew bored of me, or something. That's why I never gave you a chance. But I did want to. Merlin, there's nothing I wanted more.”

Scorpius' heart skips a beat at Al's words. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I still want that. And I don't want to be that person anymore,” Al says in a rush.

“Okay.” It's barely a whisper. Scorpius can feel the hope blooming in the way his chest feels tight, his throat dry. “What is it you want to be, then?”

“Yours.” Al licks his lips. When he finally meets Scorpius' eyes, there's a little red in his cheeks. “If you'll still have me. In some ways, I think I've always been yours. And this time, I think it should be for real. I think I'm ready now.”

“About time,” Scorpius says with a small smile, just because he can.

Al shakes his head. “I love you, you wanker.”

Scorpius bites his lip to keep himself from grinning like a loon, and wisely doesn't say, _It's about time you admitted to that too_. He does think it, though. He thinks it again and again, but what he actually says is, “I love you, too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

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